


Blink and Miss

by Delightful_I_Am



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Human, Bartender Derek, Gen, M/M, Mentioned Lydia Martin, Mentioned Scott McCall, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, mentioned Kira Yukimura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8267099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delightful_I_Am/pseuds/Delightful_I_Am
Summary: Long, graceful fingers moved in time to the low music, an intricate dance that had Derek wondering how they would feel on his skin.EDIT 03/06/17: Edited to finally finally sort out the images in chapter 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I may have a thing for tattooed and pierced Stiles. Fight me.

Long, graceful fingers moved in time to the low music, an intricate dance that had Derek wondering how they would feel on his skin. It might only be a Tuesday, but the bar is crowded; blocking his view of anything more than the hands. _Those hands_ that would occasionally pause long enough to wrap delicately around the neck of a bottle. He would see a flash of bare skin, a pale throat, and then the bottle would be down and the hands would resume their careful movements in the air. The hands stretched forward, allowing a brief glimpse of a tattooed wrist, the design snaking up a forearm swallowed by the crowd; fingers reach over the bar and pluck a straw from the cup on the bench. Derek moves toward them, stopped by an impatient order for a martini. By the time he turns back, the hands, and the person belonging to them, are gone.

Another Tuesday, and another unnecessarily large amount of people; Derek wondered why so many people needed to drink so early in the week. The memory of whiskey in his morning coffee promptly shut down any option of taking the moral high ground. He really couldn't judge people's drinking choices although he _was_ making a drink that had him gritting his teeth; apple-tinis were one thing, but a  _frosty pineapple-tini?_ Why was pineapple vodka even a  _thing?_ He caught a glimpse of a speckled face weaving through the crowd, the glint of metal indicating at least one of the freckles - moles? - was an eyebrow piercing. Derek stopped, watching the boy, his dark hair almost completely covered by a loose beanie; most of his face in shadows, apart from that god damned  _piercing._ A flash of red and the boy is obscured completely by a girl wrapping her arms around him, her curls covering his face. Derek can hear their laughter over the music and he pretends that he doesn't notice the strong looking arms gripping tight around the girl's waist. He can't make out the tattoo he caught a small glimpse of last time, but it looks intricate and it travels up his arm and under the short sleeve of his t-shirt. Derek drags a hand down his face with a groan and looks up to see the boy and girl have disappeared.

Derek loves Sundays. They're always quiet, the music low and calming after the intense and sometimes headache-inducing monstrosities he's forced to play on Saturday nights. And alright, he  _may_ be slightly hungover. A hangover for which he blames Erica and Boyd completely; Erica has the gall to be humming as she cleans the bar, Boyd actually smiling as he wipes down tables. Derek hates them both. A complete lie, but it makes him feel better. He's grumbling to Boyd about his headache, determined that if he's miserable then everyone else should suffer, when he's interrupted by someone clearing their throat. He spins, wincing when the movement makes his head throb, and finds himself face to face with a young man. The boy with the tattoos and the piercing - _piercings -_ because of _course_ this kid has snake bites. Whiskey eyes watch him with faint amusement, and he suddenly forgets how to breathe; he can finally make out the tattoo, and it appears to be made up of images that have nothing to do with each other, but somehow form a cohesive design. He's fairly sure he's staring, but he really couldn't care less. He vaguely registers Boyd talking, but he can't tear his eyes away, they travel up, taking in every detail, from the clock face stretching across the wrist, to a skeletal moth climbing toward the elbow, up to the beautiful face of a woman wearing a skull headdress with a mask of red over her eyes. His gaze catches on the boy's throat, refusing to move higher. He turns and busies himself with something, anything to stop him staring. He doesn't know when the boy leaves, but when he turns back, the relief at no longer having to control his emotions wars with the disappointment of losing the object of them. He stares at the empty space in front of him for a while.

Saturday. He hates Saturdays. He especially hates coming in early on Saturdays. Why Erica insisted on hiring a new guy, and then making  _him_ train the poor kid is beyond him; Isaac would have been fine without Derek there. The sound of breaking glass proves him wrong, but dammit, he can still  _pretend._ He sighs, turning to see Isaac cringing, clearly expecting a reprimand at the very least, god knows what at the worst. He can't bring himself to even attempt to be mad when he sees the look of utter terror on the kid's face. He tells Isaac to breathe and gently pushes him towards the kitchen. He's just picking up the last of the glass when he hears a thud on the bar. He looks up, surprised to see someone that has apparently decided the bar-top was the best place to put their face. Derek drops the glass in a bucket and stands slowly, eyes on the body slumped across his bar. He catches sight of a tattoo and he realises it's the boy again. He tries not to stare at his arms. He really does. But they're crossed on top of the bar, cradling the boy's head, and he can see the taught muscles under the tattoo. He flexes his fingers, resisting the urge to reach out and stroke the boy's hair; he can feel Isaac watching him from the kitchen. He's just about to say something when the boy lifts his head with a drawn out sigh. His eyes are closed and Derek can only be thankful he doesn't have to avoid staring into their honey coloured depths; the boy stretches, leaning back on the stool, hands reaching for the ceiling. Derek clamps down on the sound that tries to escape from the back of his throat, and he high-tails it back into the kitchen, pushing a grinning Isaac back out to the bar.

It's a Friday night, and despite all odds, Isaac has managed to make it past the dreaded three week mark. None of the other misguided kids Erica tried to hire had lasted longer than two and a half. It's nearing ten, and the place is fast approaching capacity; Derek has a mind to tell Boyd to put the 'point of no return' policy in place, even if it is a bit early for that. An hour later and he's heading over to Boyd, seated at the entrance, when he's suddenly engulfed in a crowd of half a dozen people all calling out to Isaac at the bar. He jumps back to avoid being crushed, and looks over to Isaac just as a slim body leans across the bar, a tattooed arm reaching out to drag Isaac in for a kiss on the cheek. Boyd doesn't even raise an eyebrow at his closed off expression when he tells him to start warning people if they leave they aren't coming back in. Derek hides in the bathroom for a few minutes, relieved when he comes back out to find Isaac pouring drinks and the rowdy group seated in a booth on the other side of the room, the boy no longer with them.

Derek could only handle Isaac's hurt puppy face for a week before he relented and stopped actively trying to avoid him; Derek wasn't a monster, after all. Of course, he would never tell Isaac why he was avoiding him, but he felt like he knew anyway, if the sly looks he was getting were anything to go by. He learns the boy's name from Isaac, or rather, he learns it from a conversation Isaac has with Erica that Derek may or may not have been listening to instead of setting up the bar. Stiles. Christ, even his  _name_ is mesmerising. He also learns that Stiles isn't seeing Isaac or the pretty redhead, Lydia; not that Derek cares, of course.

He sees the boy -  _Stiles -_ again on a Saturday night. He wouldn't even be here if Isaac hadn't pulled a sickie and called an hour before his shift. Although, now that Derek's watching Stiles wind through the crowd, wearing nothing but the tightest pair of jeans he's ever seen and a pair of combat boots, he might have an idea as to why Isaac decided to call in. Stiles stops in response to a loud whistle from someone on the dance floor, clearly a friend if the way he throws his arm up in an enthusiastic wave is anything to go by. Derek nearly drops the glass he's holding when Stiles does...  _something..._ with his hips; he has to brace a hand on the bar to steady himself, ignoring the strange looks he receives from the few patrons lined up. There's a gap in the people between them, and suddenly Derek can see the whole tattoo; it goes right up Stiles' wrist to his shoulder, nearly meeting, but seemingly unconnected to, a face on his chest. This one sits completely over Stiles' left pec, and it's all Derek can do to stop himself going over there and running his tongue over it to see if it has a different texture to the rest of his chest. He can feel Erica laughing behind him, serving the waiting customers, but he can't look away from Stiles; his long, lean body still moving, rolling with the music, hips and legs swaying on the beat. He can see more piercings as well, not only is there the eyebrow piercing and the snake bites; now he can see he's got gauges in both ears, along with an industrial bar in one. Derek never thought piercings were a thing for him, but apparently they are.  _They really are._

Stiles has moved further onto the dance floor, and Derek has given up all pretences of even pretending to work; he leaves the bar, distantly registering the angry cries from the customers still waiting, and makes his way over to Stiles. He hovers on the edge of the dance floor, watching as Stiles wraps an arm around a scruffy-haired boy with a laugh and a roll of his hips. The other boy shoves him off and tugs a sweet-looking Asian girl closer, laughing when Stiles throws himself down at her feet, clearly begging forgiveness. A low whine slips out when Derek takes in the sight of Stiles on his knees; Stiles has his hands fisted in the other boy's shirt and Derek can easily imagine himself in his place. Those hands, with their long fingers, and those strong looking forearms. That lean, toned chest. He knows he should move, at least go back to work if he can't bring himself to go over there, but his feet seem to be glued to the floor, and his legs feel a little like jelly. A hand on his shoulder makes him jump, and he spins around to see Boyd waiting calmly behind him, unconcerned that Derek is standing in the middle of the bar, still holding a glass in one hand. He tells him they've implemented the one way door, and that he's already had to throw two people out for trying to sneak in without IDs. Derek listens, only half paying attention, and by the time Boyd leaves with a smirk, Stiles and his friends are gone. Derek thinks he catches a glimpse of unruly brown hair heading out the door, but he blinks and it's gone.

Derek is busy setting up the bar before they open, it's a Tuesday night, and for some reason they've become a very popular on Tuesdays. He's pulling stools down from tables while Isaac follows behind, wiping them down with a cloth and what Derek's pretty sure is window cleaner. Erica is in the kitchen trying to balance the figures from the last month; the soft cursing tells him it's going a lot better than last month, there had been a lot of yelling at the computer and the sound of several things being dropped over the course of the afternoon. He's pulling the last stool down, Isaac a few tables behind, when he hears the main door open. He calls out to let Boyd know the fire marshal is planning a visit sometime this week, when he remembers that Boyd wasn't coming in until much later. He looks up and straight into the soft brown eyes of Stiles. He takes a step back, disconcerted at how close he is, and to stop himself from leaning forward the short distance it would take to- _no. Not going there._ Derek crosses his arms, casting an eye back to Isaac, who has apparently disappeared into the suspiciously quiet kitchen. He looks back at Stiles in time to catch him raking his eyes over Derek, shamelessly lingering on his hips and biceps. He clears his throat, trying to arrange his features in an unimpressed look, although he suspects he only manages to just barely reign in his longing expression. Stiles snaps his eyes back up to Derek's and grins, a lazy, confident smile that makes Derek's treacherous knees threaten to buckle. He flicks his eyes down to Stiles' hands and knows he makes a little sound that ordinarily would be cause for embarrassment, but he finds he really doesn't care because Stiles is flexing his fingers, dragging one hand across his waistband like he knows exactly what Derek is thinking.

Derek drops his arms, one hand gripping the table beside him with tense fingers, the other sliding into the pocket of his jeans, clenched in a fist. He looks back up to Stiles' face to find him watching Derek's hips with an expression that Derek can only describe as  _lust._ He grins at Stiles and leans more heavily on the table, hooking a foot around his ankle; his confidence has definitely risen, knowing he can get this sort of response from Stiles - knowing he can get  _any_ form of response, really. Stiles brings his gaze back up slowly, taking his time, those amazing eyes drinking in Derek's form. Finally, Stiles' eyes meet Derek's again, and they stare at each other for a minute; Derek's pretty sure he's holding his breath. Stiles tucks his thumbs into his belt loops, and Derek inhales a sharp, shaky breath. Stiles looks startled, but he recovers quickly, that same lazy grin back on his face as he winks -  _he fucking winks -_ at Derek. Derek loses what little control he'd been holding onto and moves forward, grabbing Stiles by the jaw with one hand, the other gripping low on his hips. He might actually growl a little, which is something he's never done before, but Stiles seems to like it, his hands have moved up to grip the front of Derek's leather jacket; Derek moves, twisting to bring Stiles up against the wall with a harsh gasp, and then he's leaning forward and crashing his lips down on Stiles'.

Stiles makes a surprised noise that turns into a moan when Derek tightens his grip, sliding his hand down to Stiles' throat; Stiles' hands have moved, one sliding up to tug at Derek's hair, the other pressing against his chest. Derek hums into Stiles' mouth and nips at his piercings, eliciting another moan. Stiles' hand tightens in Derek's hair and now he's the one moaning; he breaks away with a gasp and moves his mouth to Stiles' jaw, releasing his grip on Stiles' neck and moving to kiss and nip at the smooth skin there. He's pressed right up against Stiles, one leg in between his, hips flush with Stiles' body. Stiles has thrown his head back, eyes closed and a litany of breathed curses falling from his lips as Derek continues his assault on his neck. He's leaving a steady trail of love bites on his skin when Stiles drags his face back up to his and kisses him, hand still clenched in Derek's hair. Derek wraps an arm around Stiles' waist, pressing his hand to the warm skin under his shirt, the other hand sliding up to tangle in Stiles' hair. Derek can taste the faint metallic tang of the lip piercings, and something that reminds him of cinnamon and vanilla. He chases the taste, smiling when Stiles gasps, his hips rocking into Derek's almost of their own accord. They move together for what feels like aeons before breaking away, panting; Stiles has his hands splayed over Derek's chest, fingertips digging in through the fabric of his shirt, Derek still has a grip on Stiles' jaw, his other hand pressing against his lower back. Stiles' eyes flutter open and Derek is lost in the amber depths for a moment, his breath coming in quick little gasps.

"I'm Derek." His voice is low and husky with want and Stiles shudders as his breath ghosts over his skin.

Stiles' own voice is shaky as he says, with obvious effort, "Stiles." Derek grins.

"Oh I know." Stiles' eyes go wide with surprise before drifting shut with a moan when Derek drops his head and bites at his neck again.

Boyd has to physically remove them from the bar before he opens for the night and Erica gives a grinning Isaac twenty bucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it folks. The second chapter is just pictures of the tattoo I used as inspiration, if you want to see it


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the tattoos I based Stiles' on, they were done by an incredibly talented friend of mine here in Australia.
> 
> Pretty please keep any lewd comments to a minimum, it's bad enough I have to look at these pictures; I don't need to hear how attractive y'all find my twin brother :P


End file.
